


wrath; lust; envy

by besselfcn



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Pining, Post-Fall of Overwatch, Voyeurism, mild body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-10 15:03:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19907683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/besselfcn/pseuds/besselfcn
Summary: If Jesse were a better person he’d take a walk. A cold shower. Find someone in a dive bar to spend the night with.But here he is, sprawled out in bed, trying to reason with himself that it’s not a breach of privacy if they don’t seem to have any intention of being private.





	wrath; lust; envy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thereweregiants](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thereweregiants/gifts).



> Written for thereweregiants for the Darkwatch gift exchange. Enjoy!!

Jesse’s never sure if they don’t know he can hear them, or if they just don’t care. 

It doesn’t happen _that_ often; in the six months since he’d started working with Morrison (or Jack, or 76, or whatever the old man wants to call his current identity crisis), it’s only been twice. This is the third.

Twice was enough, though. Enough to put the sound memory into his head. Enough to dream about at night, like a teenager all over again. Enough to sit under his skin when he sees the tight lines of Morrison’s body, genetic engineering cutting through the years of age, muscles as defined as ever and skin marred only by scar tissue. 

There’s a lot of scar tissue. On both of them, these days.

(He hadn’t necessarily _wanted_ to work with Morrison, is the thing. He’d been doing fine on his own, for the first time in his life. Being his own boss. Making his own schedule. Pulling his own jobs. 

But their paths had crossed, and kept crossing, both of them chasing a cloud of smoke and two double-barrelled shotguns halfway across the world, like nothing had changed in 20 years. And Morrison had known what Jesse had suspected; that underneath the Reaper-mask was a Reyes-core, thinking he had this all under control, thinking he could dismantle this from the inside out. 

Jesse knew, though, what Morrison had suspected: the lines, as they always did with Reyes, were blurring. 

That didn’t seem to matter much, though. Not to Reyes. Not to Morrison. Not in moments like these. Jesse might’ve closed himself off half a decade ago, but keeping those two apart? Like convincing water to flow upstream.)

The air gets this metallic taste. That’s what gives him away first, before they actually see him. 

Jesse always half-expects the lights to flicker, or the temperature to drop, or something more dramatic than the faint taste of pennies on his tongue. But all he hears is a door creaking, and Morrison’s cot shifting in the room adjacent his, and the low, predatory growl as Reaper says, “Jack.”

If Jesse were a better person he’d take a walk. A cold shower. Find someone in a dive bar to spend the night with. 

But here he is, sprawled out in bed, trying to reason with himself that it’s not a breach of privacy if they don’t seem to have any intention of being private. 

“Gabriel,” Morrison says, all reverent. It makes Jesse shudder, the familiarity of the name in Morrison’s mouth. 

“No talking,” Reaper growls; it sends a shiver through Jesse’s spine. 

“ _No talking,_ ” Morrison sneers back. “You can still be a real piece of shit, can’t you.”

“Yes,” Reaper says, and then Jesse hears Morrison moan, a low noise cut short by a choking, rasping, as Reaper fucks his mouth just inches away from where Jesse sits.

So he can’t be blamed, really. Jesse’s hand is already wrapped around his cock, eyes screwed shut as he listens to the sounds of Morrison breathing heavy through his nose. 

(He’d dreamed about this before, back when he was a recruit. Back in Blackwatch watching his commanders dance around each other, trying not to put this thing they had together out in the open. Back when he was so desperate to please either one of them that he’d have fallen to his knees for them in a heartbeat, in reverence or otherwise. 

He’d imagined the two of them fucking the way people who have known each other too long fuck; unhurriedly, unceremonious. Familiar. Imagined them pulling him into the middle of it all, letting him catch a glimpse of what that kind of bright-white light felt like.

But that was before.)

Morrison makes a noise like a gasping and Jesse hears the rustle of sheets, or fabric, or _something_ \-- he doesn’t know how solid Reaper is, whether Morrison’s grabbing at his cloak and pulling him in, whether that fabric can tear away, but he imagines it. Imagines thick fingers tearing through roiling black smoke as Reaper comes down Morrison’s throat, and maybe that’s an inky black too, coating his insides like tar. 

“Gabriel, fuck, _please_ ,” Morrison groans, and Jesse has to bite down on his own hand to stop himself from groaning right along with him. He wishes he could look, could know exactly what it is they do, but he can only guess with the sounds that drift through the drywall. 

He hears the creaking of springs, more movement. Morrison on his knees, maybe. Reaper stretched out over his back, claws pinpoints against his throat, buried deep inside him. Jesse’s seen Reaper melt across the floor to slip through the cracks of a doorway; he doesn’t know what he could do to a person. 

“Oh, God,” Morrison whispers, like he’s trying to be _quiet_ , and Jesse only barely stops himself from throwing his head back against the wall with the spark that sends to his dick. 

“Hold still,” Reaper growls, and Jesse can practically see Morrison nodding--and then there’s this _sound_ , this long, stretched-out gasp, and Jesse doesn’t know what they’re doing or what it is Morrison’s feeling but he feels it too, in every inch of his body, and he comes hot and white over his fist. 

By the time he’s hastily cleaned up they’ve finished, too--Jesse heard the understated grunt when Morrison came, a noise that’s been haunting his sleep lately--and they’re negotiating. Again, like they always do.

“Just stay,” Morrison says. “Please. We were always better as a team, you know we were.”

“Were we?” Reaper asks. HIs voice is like gravel. “Have you been to Zurich, lately?”

Jesse winces. He can only imagine Morrison’s face. 

“They put up a statue of you,” Reaper says. “A new one.”

“Gabriel,” Morrison says. And that sounds familiar in his mouth, too. The desperation.

“No,” Reaper says, and he’s gone. 

So Jesse envies Morrison sometimes, the way he always has. Envies the way he has someone to share a bed with. Envies the history he has. The knowledge that whatever it was he had with Reyes, it was indelible. 

He doesn’t envy this, though. 

The silence that rolls through the house afterwards, tasting faintly of metal. 


End file.
